Little reminders....

T.S. Eliot

RIP Rik Mayall

(photo)

RIP Rik Mayall

blood roses

(photo)

Quote by Francesca Lia Block

Oh well, oh well

"Now my mind is filled with rubber tires and forest fires
And whether I'm a liar
And lots of other situations
Where I don't know what to do
At which time God screams to me
There's nothing left for me to tell you
Nothing left for me to tell you
Nothing left
Oh well, oh well, oh well, oh well
Oh well, oh well, oh well, oh well"


~ White Stripes: little cream soda

Hot Bitches

Truth.

(photo)

The Shower

(Photo)




Hot water shoots through the calcium covered shower spout, hitting the ice-cold tile. Over time staining it the same orange-rust color as the water when it first bursts it’s way through the pipes. Hot, steamy water that washes over my skin trying to cleanse away the grime of I don’t know how many days.

Steam collects on the mirror, the frosted over cobblestone glass doors of the shower. At first a light cool frost that assembles as warm steam meets chilled glass, then a heavier condensation as the warm mist of the shower tumbles and curly-cues over the top of the sliding glass like clouds of dry ice.

The moisture builds and stacks till it is a layer of cool water on the mirrored finish. It pools and slides long, crystal clear tears down the glass. Like the salty, sweet suffocating kind that pool up and spill over my eyelids. Forming trails of wet, disrupted peach fuzz facial hair and grayish, black mascara that has taken this opportunity to release itself from it’s dried bondage of my eyelashes. Gathering together again at the corners of my lips. Pausing momentarily before rolling into my mouth and sliding down my throat. Swirling like the then ice cold shower water rolling round, and round, and round the drain after I shut off the spout.

Watching, as I tower above this miniature hurricane-black hole before it guzzles the last drops of water from the shower floor. Standing and taking in the remaining steam and warmth before sliding back the glass. The fog encapsulated in my little tile and glass box rushing forth, propelled by the crisp air in the room outside.

Reaching for the fuzzy comfort of the plush towel and catching my blurred reflection in the mirror opposite the open door. Refreshed and clean, soaking wet stringy clumps of hair hang from my head and sticks to my shoulders. H2o rivers running their way down my body before being stopped, sopped up and absorbed by a sea cotton loops.

~Sydney